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  A few weeks after the announcement concerning the film, Darren Nicholls appeared in the media, talking about his involvement in the Rettendon trial. ‘Of all the supergrasses in the system, I am the tops,’ he boasted. ‘I’m considered a major witness. The police really do feel that everyone wants me dead. There is a bounty on my head. I’m not sure how much it is – some say it’s £250,000, others say £500,000 – but who’s going to collect it? Who do you collect it from?

  ‘At the trial, I tried not to look at Whomes and Steele. They scared me because of what I was doing to them. Obviously, they hate me, and I don’t think I will ever be rid of them. Mick’s quite old and hopefully he’ll die in prison and Jack, hopefully, when he gets out will be older and wiser and will just get on with his life rather than try to have his revenge.

  ‘If their sentences are quashed, I’m particularly worried about what will happen. No one likes the truth, especially the families of the people who did it. It’s something they’ve got to come to terms with, not me.’

  Happy to talk about his bravery in giving evidence for the prosecution, Nicholls failed to mention the fact that he now hoped to line his pockets by appearing in a television documentary. These facts only came to light a few days later after a newspaper article revealed that Essex Police were locked in discussions with programme makers in an effort to make last-minute changes to a documentary about Nicholls. Senior officers were said to be unhappy about certain parts of a BBC Inside Story programme that was due to be aired. Police were said to be anxious that parts of the documentary might lead to Nicholls’s identification, so they were asking for his face to be blurred out. The article also revealed that Nicholls’s story would soon be told in a book.

  The programme was due to be shown at 10.15 p.m. on 3 February 1999 but at 9 p.m. Essex Police reportedly served an injunction on the BBC, preventing the documentary from being broadcast. Granting the injunction, Mr Justice Poole said, ‘The programme should not reveal any physical characteristics of the plaintiff, or reveal details of his family or those living with him, or in any way identify his whereabouts.’

  In reply, a BBC spokeswoman said, ‘Having spoken at length to our solicitors, we are quite confident that we will be able to reverse this decision.’ She said the BBC would seek to ensure the judge saw the film the following morning. ‘The injunction was because of the images and some of what was going to be screened,’ she added.

  John Whomes rang me as soon as he heard the news. We both wondered what on earth Nicholls could have said that would make Essex Police seek an injunction to prevent the programme from being broadcast. We concluded that he might have given a different version of events relating to the murders. If true, this could have been regarded as fresh evidence, and Whomes and Steele could seek a fresh appeal.

  On 17 February 1999, the BBC announced that it was in fact Darren Nicholls who had obtained the injunction preventing the programme from being shown and not Essex Police. They went on to say that they had since managed to have the injunction lifted.

  Unfortunately for the BBC, Nicholls was granted leave to appeal, so the injunction remained in place until that appeal could be heard. In order to save public money and time, Nicholls and the BBC eventually negotiated a settlement. The programme could be shown if the BBC agreed to use actors to play the supergrass and his wife. It was finally broadcast in August 1999.

  During the programme, Nicholls said he had considered telling the police he had lied in order to escape the constant fear of being tracked down. He had even considered suicide to escape being traced and punished for ‘grassing’ on his mates. ‘I thought, if I told police I was lying, would [Mick Steele and Jack Whomes] like me again?’

  ‘Micky Steele was like a father to me,’ Nicholls reasoned, ‘and I found it really difficult to betray him. When I agreed to take part in the documentary, I thought it was going to be about the witness protection programme and I wanted to show people that you aren’t set up in luxury with millions. It’s more like a handshake and directions to the dole office. If they had told me the programme was going to brand me a liar, I obviously wouldn’t have got involved.’

  John Whomes was overjoyed at the content of the documentary. ‘We are feeling extremely hopeful after seeing the programme,’ he told reporters. ‘The members of the jury have now seen the real Nicholls. In court, he came across as a little boy who claimed he had been forced into being a getaway driver. On television, the actors portrayed the real man: a cocky liar. They also heard how Nicholls had to convince his own wife he was telling the truth. We intend to carry on campaigning until we finally get my brother out of there. The programme has really helped us with that fight.’

  Sadly, there were others who also wished to continue fighting – not the case, but me. A former associate of the Kray brothers and Tucker and Tate telephoned John Whomes and offered to assist him with his enquiries. The man, named ‘Frank K’, warned John to be careful if he should ever meet ‘that slag O’Mahoney’. When John asked why, he was simply told ‘O’Mahoney’s involved.’ Quite what I was supposed to be ‘involved’ in, I shall never know because Frank refused to elaborate when pressed by John.

  Frank did claim that in the weeks leading up to their deaths Tucker, Tate and Rolfe had acquired a mobile electric-driven crematorium from him. ‘We had meetings,’ Frank told John. ‘They were going to murder O’Mahoney and ensure there would be no trace of him left for the police to find.’ The basic concept of an electric crematorium is to heat the coil to 500 degrees and insert the body for burning. It takes nearly thirty minutes for the chamber to reach the required heat and another two hours for cremation. ‘Really?’ said John sarcastically. ‘That’s amazing.’ John telephoned me as soon as he had finished talking to Frank and told me what had been said. A mobile crematorium sounded like pub or drug-induced talk to me: anybody who talked so openly about murder and disposing of bodies to a stranger was, at best, a fool.

  As well as fools with aspirations contacting us, there were people who had important information to offer. Geoffrey Couzens, the man who had spent time with Nicholls in the witness protection programme, first contacted me via the website. He said he was not prepared to talk on the telephone or via email – all he would do was talk face to face. I immediately agreed to meet him at a time and place of his choice.

  A few days later, I set off early for a coastal town in the north-west of England. I left early because I had a four-or five-hour drive ahead of me before our rendezvous at what he said ‘may’ be a dockside bar. Couzens had given me a pay-as-you-go mobile phone number that he said wouldn’t be worth keeping because he changed it every few months to avoid being traced. I rang him as I was leaving to ensure the meeting was still on. Despite being somewhat apprehensive and nervous, he assured me that he would meet me as agreed. Apart from mentioning a dockside bar, no specific location had been arranged for our meeting. Instead, I was told to come off the motorway at a certain junction and ring him.

  When I exited at the junction later that day, I pulled over and telephoned Couzens. He said he was still willing to meet me but, he said, there was a condition. ‘Forget any dockside bar, I want you to drive in towards the city centre. You will pass a very distinctive building and then you will see a large park on your left. Stop on the main road outside a row of shops and then walk to a bench in the middle of the park near a pond. Wait there until you hear from me.’

  I didn’t fancy sitting on a bench looking at ducks on a pond for hours, but I guessed Couzens was watching me from somewhere to ensure I was alone, so I sat there for what seemed like an age. Eventually, a slightly built man appeared from the rear of a gardener’s shed and began walking towards me. I looked at him, but his face gave nothing away: he just stared ahead, above and beyond me. When he reached the bench, he sat down and, without looking at me, simply said, ‘Bernie, right?’

  ‘Yes, mate, how are you doing?’ I replied. ‘There really is no need for all of this James Bond shit, you know.’
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  Couzens laughed, got up and started to walk towards my car, so I followed him. He stood by the locked passenger door and said, ‘When we get in, I’ll give you directions.’

  The only time Couzens spoke was when he asked me to turn left or right. Eventually, he asked me to pull up outside a pub, which was located down a residential street. Couzens told me that he had been a supergrass in a drug trial involving members of a very powerful north London family.

  ‘I was the guy making Ecstasy for them,’ he said. ‘When the factory got raided, I was left without any assistance and the police asked me to implicate the main men involved in return for a reduced sentence, so I did.’

  Couzens said that he had been in protective custody with Darren Nicholls and Nicholls had told him the police had asked him to lie at the trial and make sure his evidence matched mobile phone evidence in the case, and that Nicholls had read part of his evidence during interviews from pre-agreed scripts. I was really excited by Couzens’s story, but I had to tell him to stop divulging any more information to me.

  ‘If this is all true,’ I said, ‘I would prefer it if you went to see a solicitor and made a full statement about what Nicholls told you. I don’t want anybody saying I may have advised or “coached” you.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I will do it because I know Nicholls lied and two innocent men are languishing in prison because of it. I can’t stand by and do nothing, knowing what I know.’

  I didn’t want to give Couzens time to reconsider, so I suggested he make a statement immediately. Couzens said that he was going to go away, prepare a statement, then return to me. ‘We can go to a solicitor’s then,’ he said, ‘and get it witnessed.’

  Couzens pointed to the pub, told me to get myself a drink and remain in there until he returned. As he walked away, I had a terrible feeling that he was not going to return. To be honest, I wouldn’t have blamed him: making a statement could have resulted in him having to appear in court, and being back in the public eye would undoubtedly put his life in danger. Two hours later, when I was just about to give up and go home, Couzens walked into the pub.

  ‘I’ve typed out all I know in this statement,’ he said, as he waved three or four A4 pieces of paper across his chest.

  I didn’t bother finishing my drink. We got in my car and drove around the city looking for a solicitor’s office. Eventually, we found one. Polly Gledhill was clearly taken aback by Couzens’s revelation that he was a supergrass on the witness protection programme. ‘I must say, Mr Couzens,’ she said, ‘I have never had a genuine supergrass in here before. Things are a little tame in these parts.’

  Polly asked who I was, and I told her that I was just a friend. An hour later, we were all shaking hands and saying our goodbyes. Once outside, Couzens asked me if I wanted to take the statement to the Whomes family but I said it would be better if he posted it and I played no part whatsoever. Couzens took their address from me, shook my hand and disappeared into a crowd of shoppers milling around the high street.

  Driving home, I was excited and happy for Steele and Whomes. This, I knew, would be important evidence that may help them secure an appeal.

  Chapter 17

  In April 2000, Pat Tate’s old friend and business associate Kenneth Noye was convicted of murdering 21-year-old Stephen Cameron, a man with Essex connections who had visited Raquels on more than one occasion. Danielle Cable, Cameron’s fiancée, who witnessed the attack, said Noye had thrown the first unprovoked punch after cutting up their Rascal van on a motorway slip road. When she had screamed and begged other motorists for help, Noye had produced a knife and plunged it twice up to the hilt into Cameron’s chest. As he lay dying at her feet, Cameron had managed to say, ‘He stabbed me, Dan. Get his number.’

  Noye drove off in his Land Rover Discovery at such speed that other motorists had to swerve to avoid him. The vehicle, which he had registered in a false name at a friend’s address, was crushed within hours at a local scrapyard. When the case came to court, Noye, who had boasted of the party he would hold when he was cleared, told the jury in response to the question of why he had disposed of the car, ‘I don’t want no one to know where I live. I don’t want no one to know what cars I have. I don’t want no one to know nothing.’

  The day after the stabbing, wearing a flat cap and carrying a briefcase full of cash, Noye flew by private helicopter to a golf course in France. He then travelled by private jet from Paris to Spain, where he hid on the south coast until Danielle Cable was flown out with police officers from Kent and asked if she could identify Noye, who was in a restaurant. When she pointed him out, Noye was arrested by Spanish police. He fiercely fought extradition proceedings, but was eventually returned to England to stand trial. The police have since suggested that had Noye returned to Britain immediately after his arrest and challenged Cable’s identification before a magistrate, the case could have been thrown out. Kent Police strengthened their evidence during the nine months in which he tried to remain in Spain by finding other witnesses who were able to identify him at the murder scene.

  After his return to Britain, he was placed on an identification parade, where one motorist picked him out. Noye had claimed to Spanish police that he was not at the scene but later changed his story to say that Cameron had sworn, kicked and punched him as he walked towards the van. Noye told the jury that he feared Cameron would land a lucky punch, take the knife he had produced to warn him off and use it on him.

  After Noye had been sentenced to life imprisonment, detectives announced they wanted to interview him about the murder of John Marshall, whom Tate had entrusted with the syndicate’s drug money. Marshall had been shot in the head and chest the day before Stephen Cameron had been stabbed to death. His body had been found hidden under bales of straw in the back of his Range Rover fewer than ten miles away from the scene of Cameron’s murder. Police said they were interested in Noye’s relationship with Marshall, who was suspected of supplying him with false number plates for several vehicles, including the Discovery Noye had been driving when he murdered Cameron.

  Despite establishing the link betwen Marshall, Noye and Tate, the police could not prove that Marshall was holding the syndicate’s drug money for Tate and that a proportion of it was money that Noye had lent to Tate when I was with him at the meeting at a pub near Brands Hatch. To this day, John Marshall’s murder remains unsolved. His family have always strenuously denied his involvement in any drug-related criminal activities.

  The release of the film Essex Boys in July 2000 gave the campaign to free Steele and Whomes a breath of much-needed fresh air. The Whomes family, and my partner Emma and I, were all invited to attend the premiere, which was being held at the Odeon cinema in Southend-on-Sea. We decided we would all go together because it would give us an opportunity to talk to the media about the case and hopefully attract interest.

  We were not disappointed. Sean Bean, Alex Kingston, Jude Law, Bill Murray and others who appeared in the film attended the premiere, ensuring that not only newspaper reporters but also various TV channels and radio stations were there in force. Jack’s mother Pam, his brother John and I all gave TV, radio and newspaper interviews. We were more than pleased with the publicity we managed to give Jack and Steele’s plight.

  After watching what I considered to be an at best poor film, we were all invited to a private party that was being held by the film company. John and I had been asked to have our photographs taken with Sean Bean and others who starred in the film, and as we were doing so a woman appeared and started shouting at the top of her voice.

  ‘You’re a fucking bastard, O’Mahoney! You’re fucking scum. You blamed my dead brother for killing those bastards! I hate you.’

  Before I had a chance to ask the lady to calm down and stop casting doubt on my parentage, she started kicking and punching me. I genuinely had no idea who the woman was, but she certainly knew me and disliked me intensely. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had that effect on a woman. The door st
aff grabbed hold of her and asked her to calm down, but she became more distressed.

  ‘You’re a bastard, O’Mahoney,’ she kept shouting. ‘You fitted my dead brother up.’

  Eventually, the door staff led the woman away and she was ejected.

  In the early stages of the investigation into the Rettendon murders, police had arrested a man named Billy Jasper, an East End villain with all the right connections and a crack cocaine habit. Billy had told the police that he was having a drink in a bar called Moreton’s when his friend, Jesse Gail, came in. Jesse invited Billy to a nearby Mexican restaurant, where a man named Dean joined them.

  The conversation turned to Tucker and Tate and a drug deal that was going to happen in the near future. Billy claimed Dean asked, ‘Why can’t we rob them?’ and that Jesse had replied, ‘We can’t rob them because there will be comebacks.’ Dean is then alleged to have said, ‘We will take them out of the game, then.’ Turning to Billy, Dean asked, ‘Do you want to earn five big ones [£5,000] to do a bit of driving?’

  Billy told police he later drove Dean to a meeting with Tucker, Tate and Rolfe and that Dean had shot them. Gail, he said, had met himself and Dean earlier in the evening and supplied Dean with the firearm used to carry out the shootings. The police investigated Jasper’s claims, but they found little or no evidence to support anything he had told them. To this day, Billy Jasper stands by his version of events. Jesse Gail was killed some time later in a bizarre car accident. Dean, the alleged gunman, understandably denies any involvement.